The Pink House at Appleton (27 page)

He darted away up the road in a panic and dashed through the little green gate. He made straight for the chintz armchair by the Mullard radio, where the music lulled him into delicious, cruel melancholia.

The following Monday, Susan attended the Balaclava Academy for the very first time. As he entered the school bus that first morning and saw her, Boyd went into shock and had not been able to look at her, and neither could he do it in the classroom. On that day, the sun was like Babycham. It popped and shimmered and sparkled. Yellow plums, hanging heavy in the trees by the stone fence, scented the air.

When the bell for the lunch break went, Boyd bounded out into the schoolyard, out in the sun where his dreams preceded him. He burst with fledgling passions. Every movement of Susan's head in his direction, every sight of her, every toss of her hair, every flutter of her eyelashes caused the most dramatic impact, so much so that during the game of marbles with Adrian after lunch, he lost all his best marbles.

The fight took place in the dust next to the water tank outside the lunch room, beside the barren orange tree. Someone shouted, ‘Fight!' long after it started. It was just after lunch, in the heat of the afternoon, when colourful parakeets screeched high in the pimento tree. He and Adrian grappled and tumbled about on the ground while black pimento berries rolled beneath them, Robert Jureidini trying to pull them apart. Fists were flying, hearts bursting, heads thumping while the big boys chanted, ‘Go, Little Brookes, go Little Brookes!' And the girls in their bobby socks and brown loafers were enjoying it too – all except one girl standing close to the steps in the sun, in her new uniform. She caught his eye then lowered her eyelids and turned to Ann-Marie sitting next to her. She seemed to disapprove. After that, Boyd's fists flew, wild, desperate, as the big boys whooped, as the dust flew, as his shirt came out of his trousers, as he was deaf to the music.

It was a devastating moment when their eyes met for the first time. He tasted his own blood, salty and hot, like the blood of the heroes in the books on his bed – the
Knights of the Round Table
and Larry Red King in
The U.P. Trail
– and a sudden madness overcame him. In an instant, he had Adrian on his back in the dust;
prairie dust, on the street of Laredo, women and children watching from the hardware store, hard men in black observing from the saloon.

Miss Robb appeared on the scene in an instant, dark arms gleaming and a ruler in her hand. She hauled them off to stand outside Sister Margaret Mary's office in the hall by the stairs, where the big brass bell lay on the heavy mahogany table. They waited, standing on one leg, next to a pink statue of the Virgin Mary, hands on their heads, the punishment stance. The smell of melted candle and brass polish hung heavy in the corridor.

Sister Margaret Mary came out into the hall, and while they trembled, she looked deep into their eyes. Boyd tried to look away but had nowhere else to look but into her. He saw himself trapped forever in the fierceness and horror of Dante's Inferno.

‘You human being,' Sister said. ‘You little
human being
.'

Boyd tied himself into knots and wept. He would never be perfect. He was just a human being. Sister said so.

‘You stand right there and don't move,' Sister said. ‘I shall deal with you later.' And she walked off, deep blue habit sweeping the floor.

Despite being damned, Boyd felt released of his pent-up anxieties. Still trembling, he grinned self-consciously at Adrian. Tears stained their faces. Adrian grinned back, his face apple-red, and drew closer so they could whisper together. Boyd was elated. His blood had been spilled. It was drama and adventure. And Susan had witnessed it.

He did not understand why the game of marbles had ended in such violence. All he knew was that Adrian had been able to do the things he could not, the very things his entire being begged him to do time and time again. He could not say the words. If only he'd had the note that was swept away by the wind at the club during the summer. That morning, Susan's first day at the school, Adrian had spoken freely to her, spoken endlessly in animated conversation, laughed out loud, made faces, even pulled her hair. Boyd had hung back as strong emotions took hold. Even during lessons, Adrian had continued his chatter, joking, touching and making her blush. Susan always seemed put out. Just before lunch, Adrian had pulled her hair again. Susan seemed distressed but said nothing. It was in that instant that Boyd felt the mysterious rage, feelings that got the better of him. During their game of marbles, every marble he lost fuelled his rage. And his fantasies became reality.
Adrian had been playing with Susan on the bed at her birthday party. She did not
want Adrian to. She wanted Boyd.
Just before the bell went, when there was no hope of winning back the special grey-eyed marbles, marbles that were her caressing eyes, marbles that now belonged to Adrian, he had lashed out.

As they stood waiting apprehensively, all they could hear was Sister Margaret Mary's angry rosaries, the swish of her garments and the whistle of the cane as she tested it. Two little boys whimpered as Sister returned.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the meek, for they shall… Blessed are the meek.

That afternoon, as the statue of the Virgin Mary looked down upon the class, softly, serenely, small pink fingers across her breast touching a glorious heart dripping in blood, the rain came down. Intense feelings were let loose in Boyd in the classroom of ten small desks. He imagined them, Poppy, Susan and himself, in the orchard in the rain, hot and excited. When Sister told the class to put their heads on the desk, the rhythm of the raindrops like heavenly music, he looked across the room and met Susan's eyes, briefly. They were heavenly eyes. She did not turn away. In the rain it was just their eyes, not a single word spoken between them. The rain did not stop. It played a gentle, continuous drumming rhythm on the roof and Boyd breathed the virgin scent that was in the room and loved school. It rained and they rained too, casting quick little looks over their hands on the desks at one another, wishing that the rain wouldn't stop.

The rain didn't stop. Boyd left the school bus wet and happy that afternoon, enchanted by Susan's lingering presence and definitive scent. He remembered her in the school bus, in the classroom, every image of her: the hem of her dress as she rose from the chair, the buckle of her shoes and rolled down socks as she walked out the door, the back of her knees, the shape of her neck as she turned, her white blouse so different to the other girls'. He would see her that night, and in the morning, and in that place again in the classroom where they would relive the moment they'd shared.

But that night, Papa did not go out. He said he had never known it to rain so. Lightning razed the sky and horrendous thunder rolled. At the first thunderous explosion, followed by a ripping yellow tear in the fabric of the sky, Poppy ran whimpering under the house. The next morning, the roads were blocked and flooded. School closed.

Just before midday, Papa looked out the factory window, away from the litmus paper and test tubes on his desk. He had seen the grey sheet of water in the valley suddenly darkening everything and felt the wind, chilly, threatening, fluttering the litmus paper. He saw the frightened birds flying uncertainly, their cries like those of infant children. Papa knew that at such a time his place was with his family, not in a laboratory stinking of sulphuric acid.

The wind moaned horribly when he started the Land Rover out in the staff parking area. Heavy drops of water hit the dust like bullets, and by the time Dalphus, the gateman, let him through, dark clouds had descended. The windscreen wiper flew about madly. Out on the road, yellow floods were already rushing, taking along twigs, weeds, leaves, hubcaps, old boots, bagasse and dead wood. Papa could barely see ahead. He slowed the Land Rover to a crawl, face up close to the windscreen. The railway tracks stopped some of the rushing debris but only temporarily. Papa crossed the rails and sank into deep water on the other side. On his way home from the club at night, he just bounced across the tracks and shot onto the white gravelly road, speeding towards the bridge three hundred yards away. It was a straight run and he usually floored the gas pedal. Now, from where he sat, he could neither see the bridge nor the furious leaves of cane in their customary place on either side of the road, so he judged the distance and the direction. But he was worried. Appleton people talked about the foolhardiness of trying to cross the bridge over the Black River during heavy rain, a storm, or worse, a hurricane. Anyone who tried would be found weeks later at the river's mouth, at Black River town on the coast, over twenty miles away, bloated and unrecognisable. In a storm, the river always flooded its banks and only giant tractors dared to cross, driven by reckless men without families or loved ones.

Papa had thought that he'd be out of the laboratory, across the bridge and at the pink house well before the existing conditions had any chance of developing. He was wrong. The elements had moved swiftly, stealthily, tricking him. In the dashing rain and the swirling greyness, he couldn't see a thing. He lost direction. His judgement failed him. It was impossible to go back. He did not know where ‘back' was. The only thing to do was hold steadfast to the wheel, keep the vehicle in gear and inch forward as best he could. He did not believe the river was flooded yet and that the bridge was impassable. On an ordinary day, the lowest section of the bridge was a good twelve feet above water. Still, he regretted not having left the laboratory ten minutes earlier. A few minutes could have made a difference.

Eventually the rain slackened a bit, the howling decreased and Papa, senses invigorated, his hopes rising, began to see shapes. He was in the middle of what the road had become, a rushing river of yellow, swirling water. The canes on either side of the road were all flat on the ground, green leaves submerged, the fields an expanding lake. About thirty yards ahead, he glimpsed the black iron bridge, squat and ugly in the rain. It seemed passable. He speeded up, caution becoming his enemy, while making a mental note of his surroundings. And it was at that moment that he saw the Land Rover, a familiar vehicle but in an unfamiliar location, resting in a peculiar position. It was rain-battered and soaked, up to its wheels in the mud, at the edge of the fields, pointing recklessly into the canes. Surprised, Papa drove up, craning his neck to look. He stopped and got out, immediately sinking to his knees in water, his dry khakis turning dark. The driver's door of the vehicle pushed open from the inside and Papa, on tenterhooks, was not as surprised as he felt he should be to see Ann Mitchison emerge.

Her lips moved but he couldn't hear the words. Her eyes expressed distress. Papa stumbled forward and she, reaching out, almost fell into his arms. She was warm, very warm. Their movements seemed to be in harmony, as if worked out beforehand. Ann ended up next to Papa in his Land Rover as the wind and thunder returned, fiercely, as if in jealous rage, bringing hard sheets of thumping rain and a maniacal fog. A dark greyness had crept upon them, and the howling, like the screams and moans of animals and children, drowned out every attempt to speak. Ann was numb with fright, hands grasping at Papa's shoulders. Papa heard voices too, of Mama and his children, but he also heard other voices. He heard Ann's voice, persistent and urgent, rising above the others. He heard his own loud voice, in terrible conflict.

Papa headed straight for the bridge with Ann as his passenger. The Land Rover struggled as it mounted the ramp into the roaring torrent. He realised immediately that the river was in flood, felt at once the hydraulic pressure against the vehicle. Ann too felt the vehicle under stress, saw Papa struggle with the wheel, heard the mighty rushing, the cracking and creaking, the million voices like dying people calling out to their loved ones. All about them the thunder raged relentlessly like beating drums, crashing cymbals. Ann continued to grip Papa's shoulder, as if to draw strength. His body was rigid, eyes piercing, head snapping back at the vicious bolt of lightning striking the bridge, sparks flying out and up and down. Ann cried out, clinging to Papa. He saw, in the sudden light, the hulking shape, the crude metal uprights, the crusty rivets. They crossed the bridge. A final stuttering struggle and they were at the other side. There the mist was not as dense.

Papa pictured the scene on a normal day: a white road ascended from the bridge and continued up the slope between green pastures, ending on a plateau where the roads forked. One road went to the distant Taunton and the other to the pink house and other staff houses on the hill. Now there was no road, just a roaring torrent of yellow water, rushing down towards the river. It was impenetrable, suicidal to try to traverse it. Remaining in the Land Rover was not advisable so close to the metal bridge, a lightning conductor. They were unable to move forward or back. However, Papa knew there was a hut nearby, a two-room office, small and white and fairly sturdy, where the ranger paid wages to the labourers on a Friday. It should be halfway up the slope. If they could get there, they would be safe till the storm blew over.

‘We've got to get out!' Papa shouted.

‘What?' Ann's lips replied.

Papa indicated his intentions. They left the Land Rover at the side of the road, next to a stricken tree, its trunk broken, exposed and white, and braved the deep waters. Once they got beyond twenty yards, Papa picked out the ranger's hut in its familiar place on the slope. There the rain came down in straight streaks and the water, rushing down the hill, was clean and smooth and treacherous, like glass. But it was easier to make progress there. Papa felt the weight of fear lessen as they neared the little white-washed building.

* * *

Boyd dashed to the verandah the moment the rain started. He stood looking out, feeling the growing excitement as the wind tore at the trees, as birds dashed about looking for safety. Fruit fell to the ground by the dozen and the sky grew black and foreboding and wonderful. The whirling rain crashed against the house like the drums of the coolies. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed. Inside him, in the quiet, he shouted with joy, his heart pounding, and he wondered what Susan was doing at that very moment. Mama commanded that all the windows should be closed and shuttered, the verandah chairs dragged into the drawing room. Everyone shouted and waved their arms because their voices could not be heard. Boyd liked the shouting, the quiet shouting, voices competing with thunder and the tremendous thrashing sounds. He liked the rushing about, the impending disaster, the look of concern on Mama's face, the fear in Mavis's and Yvonne's eyes.

‘This is the worse I've seen it for years,' he heard Mama say.

‘It looking bad, ma'am,' Mavis panted, dragging at the verandah chairs. ‘Is Hurricane Audrey come back, ma'am.'

‘You mean Hurricane Charlie,' Mama told her. ‘Hurricane Charlie destroyed the Palisadoes Airport and Port Royal and killed almost two hundred people. I was expecting Boyd then. It's not the kind of hurricane you want to wish back.'

In his room, Boyd raised the binoculars to his eyes and stared out the bedroom window at the unfolding drama. Down in the heart of the valley it was misty and dark and the heaviest rain seemed to be concentrated there. Unseen forces were at work, battling with earth and sky and wind. He saw figures and his heart leaped. These were familiar shapes, a man and a woman running, struggling through the rain, and he thought he heard their cries. He put the binoculars down. He wanted to tell Mama but knew that that would only make the storm worse. The house grew dark and the lights went on but he remained in the darkness of his room, breathing hard, Susan his only companion.

* * *

The door of the ranger's hut opened with one push and Papa and Ann tumbled in, awkward and close in their wetness. Papa realised that Ann had been holding onto him glue-tight in their desperation up the hill and now, in the relative quiet of the room, he tried to release her but couldn't. He was close up against the creature who, night after night, walked about in his dreams, her lips calling him to her. The storm seemed to wash away all propriety and he didn't care now, even if the neighbours could see. As he turned, pulling the door shut behind them, he saw her crying and clutching at her hair. That did it for him.

Ann started to speak, her lips blood-red.

Papa said, ‘Shh.'

The room was dry. It contained a table and chair and a long bench along one wall. In the adjoining room, Papa spied crocus bags and burlap sacks, labourers' paraphernalia. These were the only objects Papa identified clearly, and the only moment that an objective calculation was made. After that, events took their turn, tumbled one into another with unstoppable force, like the storm. Once again their movements, though frantic, had co-ordination and harmony, as if choreographed. This time it was not short and they did not break apart. This time there were no kling-kling birds to frighten them into thinking they were being observed by strangers. This time no menacing dreadlocked Rastafarian appeared, no suspicious figures lurked in the darkness. This time it was long and slow and tight like pure molasses, full of heat, shocking in its intensity. They grew weak. There was only one place to go; to ground. It was hot and sweet there in their steaming nakedness, his flesh against her flesh and hers against his. They took turns on the burlap sacks and on the coarse bags, grunting and panting and crying out, and going at it again and again like labourers, falling like sheaves.